The sailing reputation of Skipper George had been in question through the season. He had come within six inches of losing the Black Eagle in a small gale of the last voyage.
“Who’s clerk?” Archie asked.
No friend of Archie!
“Sharp enough, anyhow,” the boy thought.
Sir Archibald put his hands in his pockets again and began to pace the floor; his lips were pursed, his brows drawn. Archie waited anxiously at the window.
“When,” demanded Sir Archibald, pausing abruptly in his walk––“when do you propose to liquidate this debt?”
“We’ll sail the Spot Cash into St. John’s harbour, sir, on September first, or before.”
“With three hundred quintals of fish in her hold, I suppose?”
Three hundred quintals of dry fish, at four dollars, roughly, a quintal, was twelve hundred dollars.